midst of the bustle of an arrival in London at night. Friends and
servants were there waiting for travellers; but, either from neglect on
the part of her own household, or from her having been expected by the
earlier train, no one was in waiting for Flora. In vain she strained
her eyes to find some familiar face, to see some one who could relieve
her agony of suspense, by giving her tidings of her husband. After some
delay--and delay was torture--a conveyance was procured, in which the
miserable wife was slowly jolted through narrow, gloomy streets, towards
the home at which she yearned to arrive. The cab stopped at her own
door; Flora sprang from it--herself rang the bell, gently, fearfully,
for was not suffering within the dwelling? No answer! She rang the
bell again, and, before the sound died away, the door was opened by a
servant. He started at seeing his mistress; his face answered the
question which she could not speak; he uttered but the sentence, "Too
late!" and Flora sank senseless on the threshold.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
*CONCLUSION.*
The newspapers on the following day all dilated on one theme--the
genius, the brilliant career, and the sudden death, of Sir Amery
Legrange. Each had its paragraph of praise, not in every case unmingled
with censure, but censure tenderly, sparingly dealt forth; for the
melancholy fate of the gifted young author had wrung compassion from
literary critics and theological opponents. In the gay saloons and
haunts of fashion, of which he had but a few days since been the
ornament and pride, his name was upon every tongue. In a brief space
the news spread far and wide, like circles on a river when some large
object has been suddenly plunged into its waters. But the current of
society flowed on as ever; soon not the faintest ripple on its surface
told that one of its proudest names had become a word of the past--that
one of its loftiest spirits had gone to the "bourn from which no
traveller returns."
But there was one being, weeping in her darkened chamber alone, in whose
almost broken heart a void was made which nothing earthly could ever
fill--one crushed beneath the weight of a grief for which even religion
has no comfort. What mattered it to her that the voice of nations
swelled the tribute to departed genius--that he whom she so passionately
loved would occupy a niche in the temple of Fame! Blessed mourners are
they who weep for the dead translated to a more blissful existence;
thrice blessed they who, when all the pride of this world shall have
passed away like a fevered dream, shall hear the voice of the Saviour
pronounce the sentence, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant;
enter thou into the joy of thy Lord!" But Flora sorrowed as one without
hope. Oh! that those who, in defiance of the command--the merciful
warning of their God--choose to twine the dearest affections of their
hearts around an earthly pillar, on which "holiness to the Lord" has
never been inscribed, would anticipate the anguish of that day when,
beneath the stroke of the angel of death, that pillar shall lie
shattered in the dust; and Despair, gazing on the broken relics of all
that was dear, fair, talented, and brave, shall utter the mournful wail,
"_Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!_"
Little was it to the bereaved young widow that, with the loss of her
dearest treasure, wealth also took wings to itself and fled away. Sir
Amery's income had principally consisted of life-rent; careless in money
concerns, little anticipating so sudden and speedy a close to his
career, he had left a very scanty provision for his survivor. There
was, indeed, a new work of his, almost completed, for which contending
publishers were ready to offer sums which would have materially enlarged
the scanty resources of Lady Legrange. The posthumous work of an author
so renowned was certain to command the eager attention of the public;
and Flora received various communications on the subject. She read the
manuscript, wept over the lines which had been last traced by the loved
hand now cold in death; she then folded up the papers, enclosed and
sealed them, and, resolved that no eye but her own should ever peruse
the unhallowed creation of a mind which had made fatal progress in
error, she endorsed the packet with a command that at her death other
hands should burn, unread, that which she had not herself the heart to
destroy. "These would be his orders, could he speak from the grave,"
said Flora to herself, as she locked up the papers in her cabinet's
deepest recess. "Oh! would he not desire to obliterate in all his
writings every page which could injure others when he is himself no
more--every page which could witness against him! O God! my God!"
exclaimed the widow, suddenly raising her clasped hands with a cry of
anguish wrung from the depths of her soul, "they cannot be
obliterated--they cannot be recalled--it is too late!--oh! misery! it is
too late!"
The first thing which served in any degree to restore composure to the
unhappy Flora was her return to her early home. Mrs. Vernon, who had
been too ill to hasten to her daughter when the tidings of her
bereavement arrived, or even for some time to be permitted to know of
her loss, was now convalescent, and welcomed her beloved child with a
depth and intensity of loving sympathy that poured balm into Flora's
bleeding heart. She had thought, in the first transport of her anguish,
that all had been rent from her at once; but she found that one of
earth's most priceless blessings was left to her yet--the deep,
unchanged, holy love of her mother.
Mrs. Vernon received back her Flora as a precious treasure restored; and
it was a treasure purified, beautified, refined. The furnace of
affliction, seven times heated, had not been heated in vain.
Gradually Flora resumed her daily round of occupations, and passed a
life closely resembling that which had been hers at the period when our
story opened. She visited the sick and the poor, comforted the
sorrowful, taught the ignorant--neglected none of the duties of home.
But in how different a spirit were those duties performed! With what
altered feelings did the chastened mourner now repeat the confession of
the sins of whose existence she had then scarcely known! Shrinking from
the idea of resting on her own righteousness, her own imperfect and
polluted works, Flora's only hope was in the merits of her Saviour--her
greatest solace the remembrance of His death--her aim and object in life
to show her humble gratitude to Him who had loved and given Himself for
her. She was no more as a sunbeam in the dwelling--her sparkling
brightness was gone for ever; but rather like the gentle moonbeam that
illumines the night, shining with a soft lustre, borrowed from the only
true Source of happiness and of light.
We have seen how the seed of the Word had sprung up in a shallow soil,
made a fair show, and then withered away; how the plant of earthly love
had succeeded, striking deep its roots, spreading wide its branches,
obscuring the light of heaven, darkening the earth with its fatal shade.
God in mercy had torn up that plant; and though the uprooting of it had
appeared to wrench asunder the very heart-strings that had twined so
closely around it, to lay bare the deepest recesses of the soil, it
prepared that soil, through the divine blessing, for the precious seed
of truth. The word of God, now received in humility and meekness,
rested in the ground which the Lord had rendered good, and brought forth
abundantly the fruit of holy living, to the praise and glory of the
Giver of all grace.
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